


Twelve Days

by MToddWebster (RembrandtsWife)



Series: Your Shape in the Doorway [8]
Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Baked Goods Discourse, Biting, Christmas, Coffee, Come Marking, Frottage, Genderqueer Character, Holidays, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, Musical References, New Year's Eve, New Years, Oral Sex, Other, Phone Calls & Telephones, Reunion Sex, Shopping, Snow, Swimming, Tea, Walks In The Woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/MToddWebster
Summary: You and Andrew over the twelve days of Christmas.
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/You
Series: Your Shape in the Doorway [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839052
Kudos: 63





	1. December 24th

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas fic! What a concept!
> 
> I'll be posting one chapter per day on the date it occurs, beginning on the 24th. Some chapters have explicit sex, but not every chapter; I have, however, set the rating to the highest possibility from the start. 
> 
> A happy holiday to my readers, whatever they are celebrating. Here's to a better 2021 for all of us.

I. December 24th

You’re lacing up your boots when Andrew calls you on Christmas Eve.

“Merry Christmas, luv.”

You laugh out loud, too surprised to respond in kind. “Andrew! What are you doing? Why are you awake? What time is it there?”

“I set an alarm, because I wanted to wish you a happy Christmas.” A pause over the ethers. “Ehm, actually, I set a coupl’ alarms. You know. So I could call you before you went to church. Are you still going to church?”

“Oh, yeah.” You stare down at your half-laced boot. “We had some snow, so I was just putting on my boots. They don’t exactly enhance the rest of my outfit, but better safe than sorry, blah blah blah.”

“Oh, be careful drivin’ then.”

You wiggle your foot and watch the boot laces flop. “Don’t worry, the church I’m going to is only about three blocks away. Easier to walk than drive, really.”

“Still be careful, then. Walking alone at night.” His accent thickens a little, as it always does when he gets emotional.

“I will. And I’ll ask someone to walk or drive me home afterward.”

“Good, good.” He takes an audible breath. “Merry Christmas, then.”

“Merry Christmas, Andrew. And go back to sleep.”


	2. December 25th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call on Christmas Day

II. December 25th

Christmas Day is so noisy that you want to put plugs in your ears. The extended family is gathering at your parents’ place this year, and people are in and out all day. Your great-aunt keeps talking, very loudly because her hearing is going but she won’t admit it, about how terrible Christmas was back in 2020, when nobody could visit because of the COVID, and she was all alone on Christmas Day, just her and the television, and wasn’t that an awful year? Fortunately, one of your cousins has the bright idea of plopping the most recent grandkid in her lap, and that at least turns her reminiscing into (slightly quieter) cooing over the baby. 

The doorbell is ringing again and one of the kids is thundering to the door in answer when your phone buzzes in your pocket. Thank goodness. 

“Happy Christmas, and a partridge in a pear tree. How’s it going, sweetheart?”

As usual, the sound of Andrew’s voice makes you feel warm all over. As quietly as you can manage, you head for the guest bedroom that once was yours. “It’s a circus. A three-ring circus. No, a six-ring circus. Can it be a six-ring circus?”

Andrew laughs. “I guess it can if you have enough people. How’re you holding up?”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” You flop down on your old bed with an exhale. “It is better than 2020, when I didn’t even dare come see my parents. One of my cousins has a new baby, and a niece and a nephew have both come out as nonbinary and everybody’s cool with it.”

“That’s fantastic.” He clears his throat. Someone downstairs begins singing a medieval carol, “Gaudete, gaudete,” loudly and not very well. 

“Mum and Dad are eager to meet you,” he says, sounding suddenly younger, “you did get the emails about the tickets, yeah?”

“Yes, I did.” This is not the first time he’s asked about the ticket emails, and it probably won’t be the last; you fly out to see him on the 27th. “First class on Aer Lingus and I’m going to love it.” You had let him pay for this trip, as a gift. 

“You are. Best airline in the world.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Have y’ eaten dinner yet?”

“No, but the hors d’oeuvres are coming out soon. There’s an enormous cheeseplate coming to room temperature in the kitchen--I’m a little scared of it, to tell you the truth.”

“Mm, I’ll have to take you round to taste some of the vegetarian cheeses, amazing stuff--made without rennet.” You hear some kind of background noise over the phone. “Well, I’d better go, love. Merry Christmas from all of us.”

“Same to all of you.” You make a little kissy noise into the phone and then feel silly, but what the hell. “Bye-bye.


	3. December 26th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A musical phone call, and one more day before you fly to meet Andrew.

You’re still in bed at your parents’ place when the phone wakes you. Seeing Andrew’s number, you fumble to answer and sit up and turn on a light, all at the same time-- “Hello?”

Instead of Andy’s voice, you get a four-part chorus of male voices blasting into your ear. “Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of Stephen--”

The carol doesn’t get very far before it breaks up into laughter, and you recognize Andrew’s laugh and then, in the background, a familiar voice that’s deeper than his, the voice of his friend Alex Ryan.

“Today’s greeting,” Andrew says, still chuckling, “was brought to you by the brothers Ryan and the brothers Hozier-Byrne. Say hullo, lads.”

Three obedient “hullos!” come from Alex, his older brother Patrick, who also has a deep speaking voice, and Andy’s older brother Jon, who sounds much like him.

You snort into the phone. “Call back when I’m awake and I’ll say hello back, you assholes. Did you forget the time difference?”

“Why are you still in bed? I’ve already had a dip in the waves and a visit to the shops. Boxing Day sales and what not.” There’s a pause. “Did I really wake you?”

You scratch the back of your head. “Yeah, kind of. That’s all right. It’s not like I can’t take a nap later if I want.”

“Been missing you. Can’t stop thinking about having you here.” He sounds wistful and possibly a little horny, or maybe you’re just projecting. 

“Well, my flight is tomorrow. I’ll see you in, what, less than 36 hours?”

“Too long,” he says. His voice drops, in volume and in pitch, and you wonder if the other lads are still nearby. “I have a whole list of things I want to do with you, and it starts with, ehm, letting you catch up on your jet lag.”

The way he says “t’ings”, and the humor and affection and promise in his voice, make you want to wriggle all over like a cat in a sunbeam. “I, um, I’ll be eager to see that list, you know, once I’ve recovered. From my jet lag.”

“Oh, shut up, fucker!” Andrew is shouting but not into the phone--probably at Alex, then, “fucker” seems to be their equivalent of an affectionate nickname. “I’ve got to go, right,” he says, to you now. “See you tomorrow night, sweets. Bye for now.”

“Bye--” The phone cuts off halfway through your good-bye and Andrew saying something more, but it doesn’t matter. Tomorrow night, in Dublin.


	4. December 27th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leavin' on a jet plane

You’re already belted into your seat and the flight attendants have made their emergency info speech, in what you now recognize as thick West-of-Ireland accents, when you call Andrew. You clear your throat and swallow hard as it rings, and when he speaks, you begin singing “Leavin’ on a Jet Plane”. 

He laughs with delight. A grandmotherish woman across the aisle gives you an amused look. “We’re just about to take off. The flight attendants are buckling in as I speak.”

“Safe travels, love. Enjoy first class and drink the good stuff, hear me?”

“I will. Happy whatever saint’s day this is. I can’t wait.”

The captain’s voice comes over the speakers, and you quickly say, “Got to go, love. See you tonight.” You’re not sure why the tears start running down your face, but they don’t hurt. You’re on your way to a gorgeous country for ten days with the man you love.


	5. December 28th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be the reunion sex

You wake suddenly and completely, remembering where you are and why: in Ireland, County Wicklow, a house in the country; in the house of Andrew Hozier-Byrne, in his bed, your lover’s bed. 

Your trip had been long, but easy and uneventful: A short flight to DC, with breakfast served, and then the big Aer Lingus jet headed for Dublin. First class meant comfortable seats, good food, good whiskey on offer. You’d indulged in a stout with dinner and watched Christmas movies, re-read Jane Langton’s The Shortest Day, and napped. But you really had been knackered, as Andrew said, by the time he picked you up at the airport--over twelve hours in transit, from your door to his. You were grateful to eat dinner at his place, lasagne with a glass of wine, and go to bed first, leaving him playing carols on the guitar.

The long narrow ridge in the bed beside you now is your lover, his slow deep breathing not quite a snore. His back is toward you, one bony shoulder and a mass of hair sticking out from beneath the covers. He sleeps in a t-shirt and boxers, usually, with socks in the winter, heat off and layers of covers on. Carefully you shift toward him, across the cooler space between you on the king-sized bed, until your pocket of warmth begins to merge with his. 

Your arm around him, palm on his chest, doesn’t get a response, but pressing your face between his shoulderblades does--a slight flinch, then a chuckle. “Your nose is cold.”

You raise your face. “It means I’m healthy,” and you kiss his spine.

Andrew turns over in the bed to face you, smiling through his usual morning tangle. “You’re not a dog,” he points out, before leaning in to kiss you. It’s a slow, thorough, meaningful kiss.

“Woof,” you say, when he draws back. He laughs and gets an arm around you to leverage you closer. You cooperate, letting yourself be drawn into warmth and entwined limbs and kissing and the bed-smell of the two of you.

You get your hands in his hair as he rubs his cock against your belly, his tongue greedy in your mouth. Whimpering, you thrust back against him, pleasure building; your hands are anchored, but his roam, waking every nerve to its potential. He groans, low in his chest, and without warning sinks his teeth into your shoulder, close to your neck, and without warning you come, moaning with the ebb and flow of it, as he comes, too and prints himself on your skin.

There is panting and there is cuddling, and then he kisses the spot he bit. “You’ll have a mark there,” he says, unapologetic, and you click your teeth at him as though you would bite back.

“I was gonna wear a scarf anyway.” 

You study his face for a moment: tangled hair, amused green eyes, his mouth a little swollen, his chin and jaw bristling unevenly with morning beard. It’s one of the paradoxes of the man: He’s tender and playful in bed, he never forgets about your pleasure, but when you get him going, he bites like an animal. This morning’s mark on your shoulder isn’t the first. 

There’s a strange little noise, and it takes you a second to identify it as, first, a stomach growling, and second, his stomach. He makes an alarmed face.

“You hungry?” 

You think about it. “Yeah. Let’s just make breakfast here?”

“Sure.” He kisses you briefly and starts to get up, then notices that you’re both still pretty sticky. “I’ll get a washcloth.”

“Don’t bother.” You reach for the tissues on the nightstand. “I’ll shower later. I want to smell like this for a while.”

He turns back, puts one knee on the bed. “Want me to get right back into bed, then?” He’s still a little bit hard.

You wave him away, laughing. “No, no! We have time. Breakfast now. And a pot of tea, with the good stuff?”

“As you wish,” he says, in a very bad imitation of Cary Elwes, and heads for the bathroom. Laughing, you sit up and get your feet on the floor, scrub your hands through your hair. You’ve never been happier.


	6. December 29th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post meeting the parents, a conversation about creative work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter owes its inspiration to the wonderful video Andrew and his mother, Raine Hozier-Byrne, made about the creation of the album cover for Wasteland, Baby! I recommend watching it, especially if you haven't seen it.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-ISqUzOqJo

“I love your mother.”

You weren’t planning to say anything, full and sleepy as you are, but the words bubble out of you like laughter. They’re met with Andrew’s laughter, a delighted chuckle from the driver’s seat (and you’re still not used to the driver of the car being on your right). 

“Yeh, she’s a gem, isn’t she?”

You shift and stretch out your legs. “It’s not just that she’s an amazing cook. I feel like I won’t need to eat for days, Andy!”

“She got used to feeding the likes of me,” he puts in. 

“I mean, I’ve seen your album covers, the art she did, and I thought they were amazing. But seeing some of her actual art, the actual painting….” You are too full and too sleepy (and possible a little too tipsy) to make sense of what you feel.

“Yeah.” Andy pauses and makes a turn down yet another narrow, unlit, winding road. “No disrespect to, em, digital artists and their work, no question it’s art, but there’s something about the physical painting, em, the materials of it, seeing the brush strokes, going into a studio and smelling the paints and the turps and there’s a blank canvas and something half-finished and then a completed painting--it’s like a painting is a live thing. It could start breathing and speak to you.”

“Yes!” You wave a hand for emphasis, but once again, words fail you. Andrew reaches over and squeezes your hand, with a little smile. You hang onto him and he lets you, driving one-handed. His hand feels colder than yours.

“The most important thing I learned from my parents,” he says after a while, “is that art is a job of work. It’s a thing that you do, every day, or else it doesn’t get done. Just like cleaning, or cooking, teaching, working in a bank. You show up and do what needs to be done, what calls to you to be done. And the, em, the hard part, the challenge, is that if you’re an artist of any kind, nobody can tell you what that thing is that you need to be doing, except yourself. Or the thing itself.”

“The spirit. Your muse.” You look at him. He nods.

“Yeah. If you want to talk about it that way.”

You notice a tree with a familiar bend in the arc of the headlights and realize you’re close to Andrew’s house.

“Don’t let my being here keep you from working. You don’t have to do that.”

He squeezes your hand again. “All right, luv, but sometimes the muse says, You need a fucking break, lad.”


	7. December 30th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping in Dublin and a realization.

You and Andrew decide to take this day to go into Dublin and shop. He’ll be the proud local showing off the advantages of his homeland, and you’ll be the awestruck tourist amazed by all the things you see that you don’t have at home. It doesn’t take much acting on your part; Ireland really does amaze you sometimes, not so much for what they have in the stores (a lot of which are the same stores as in any big city in the States, though you mostly pass those by) but for the beauty of the landscape, the seemingly infinite variations in local accents, the rich culture of poetry, music, and theater.

You stock up on tea and chocolates and “biscuits”, getting into a long explanation of how in America, a biscuit is not a cookie, it’s similar to a scone but not the same, biscotti are their own thing, and “‘Biscuit Monster’ just doesn’t have the same ring as ‘Cookie Monster’, does it?” Which for some reason sends Andrew into gales of laughter, stumbling away and doubling over with his hands on his knees, and heads turn all over the street to look at the goofy giant laughing so hard his hat was slipping off his hair.

Suddenly it strikes you how bizarre this is. That is Hozier. Your boyfriend, your lover, is a famous singer-songwriter, known all over the world. He crosses the barricade at a concert to sing his signature tune and longing women put their hands on him, maenads to his Dionysus. Ireland is a tiny, tiny country compared to the vast sprawl of the States. Is there anyone in this Dublin crowd who doesn’t know who he is? He still goes to the same pub he went to in his brief stint at college for “pints with the lads”. He gets his oatmilk lattes at the Happy Hedgehog. And when he comes back and sweeps you into his arms, all the people around you, laughing or smiling or wincing, know that you are his significant other.

Yet there are no paparazzi. A couple of fans have politely requested pics and gotten them. People smile and nod at you with him, but no one wants your picture, and that’s fine. You eat at his favorite Italian place undisturbed and grab a bottle of wine to take home with you.

It occurs to you, as Andrew navigates the twisty roads at a moderate speed, humming to himself, that you could easily live here, with him. If he wanted you to. You have a job, not a career. You could get a job, probably. You wouldn’t want to just live off him. Or you could, and do… something. Something creative. Maybe.

You’re thinking way too far ahead, you tell yourself, as you pull up beside the house. Enjoy the moment, and the moment is Andrew leaning over to kiss you, affectionately, then thoroughly, before getting out of the car. At least this part of your relationship remains private.


	8. December 31st

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor Who rewatch gets interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! May 2021 be a good year for Andrew, for you my readers, and for planet Earth.

New Year’s Eve begins with an early-ish dinner at a Thai restaurant in Greystones. By the time you’re heading back to Andrew’s house (which it’s increasingly easy to think of as “home”), the streets are already starting to fill up with giddy crowds. Neither of you had wanted to go to any of the multiple parties Andrew had been invited to (“I’m still shite craic,” he says, eyes twinkling), so there had been no arguments, only negotiation over the relative merits of champagne vs. prosecco and dark chocolate vs. milk.

You’ve been watching some of the last series of Doctor Who in order to get ready for the New Year’s episode tomorrow (at this point the drink of choice is hot chocolate with shortbread cookies, no alcohol yet) when Andrew turns to you, smoothes back your hair, and delicately kisses a certain spot on your neck. It’s a spot that makes you shiver, that raises the tiny hairs on your arms and turns your nipples hard.

You turn to look at him. He’s still leaning close, looking at you intently, and he’s got that glint in his eye, the one that tells you he’s in a certain mood. You call it “feral Andrew” and it scares you just a tiny bit, for no discernible reason. Andrew Hozier-Byrne is the least violent of men--but violence, you have learned, has nothing on passion.

He moves in to kiss your neck again, this time with teeth. The breathless whimper that escapes you is your consent to his approach, the confirmation of your mutual desire. He licks the spot he bit, then turns your face toward his and begins to kiss you senseless. You somehow manage to seize the remote, pause the outraged Daleks onscreen, and turn off the television before you lose your mind entirely.

Andrew’s hands roam all over you while his mouth stays glued to yours, hungry and demanding. When he gets like this, you give yourself up; you can’t do more than clutch at his hair, his arms, his back as he ravishes you. Yes, ravishes, that’s the word, the right word for when your shirt is open, his teeth are grazing your nipples, his hands pull downward and your pants disappear, and then he’s kneeling between your thighs and worshipping you with his mouth.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god….” You hear yourself chanting a descant over the wet, greedy noises his mouth is making on your flesh. Those two words are all you can say, not even his name; he is god, unmaking and remaking you with his touch, yet you are also god, rapturous with his devotion, devoted to his rapture. You can’t even hold onto his any more; your arms are flung open, cruciform, hands splayed, helpless.

You are so, so close to coming when it stops. His mouth fastens on yours again, imprinting you with the taste and smell of your own desire, then he growls against your ear: “I want to fuck you.”

You don’t always fuck, the two of you; it’s not something either of you needs all the time. Sex and intimacy and making love have so many possible choreographies, and Andy is on board with your desire to explore as many of them as possible. But when he wants it, needs it, it’s brilliant, he’s brilliant. “Right here,” you say, voice ragged, shaking with that imminent but delayed orgasm. “Right here.”

He does, you do, right there on the couch: Him with his jeans and pants shoved down, you naked from the waist down with one foot on the back of the couch and the other on the floor, his cock deep inside you and his face against your neck. Your hands sweep over his lean back and narrow buttocks, pulling him deeper; you moan and he growls and you sink down and down into an ocean of sensation that has no shore and no bottom yet is blindingly bright.

When at last you feel the wetness of his release inside you, hear the sudden soft sigh of it against your ear, you are gasping and trembling and overwhelmed. Andrew sinks down on top of you. Your hands creep up to stroke his hair.

“I love you so fucking much, babe,” he mumbles against your throat.

“Oh god,” is all you can say. “Oh god.”


	9. January 1st

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A New Year's Day concert in Dublin, and seeing an ex.

The DVR is set to record the New Year’s special of Doctor Who because Andrew is performing on the evening of January 1st. One reason the two of you had decided on a Christmastime visit was so you could see this concert and see Andrew live on his home turf. “It gives me a little, ehm, boost, you know?” he had said. “Being in front of the home crowd.”

“So sometimes a prophet does have honor in his own country?” Andrew had caught the Biblical reference, and oddly, it had made him blush. He still, at times, seems to have trouble connecting his own hard work with the success and fame it’s brought him.

You agree to his suggestion that you shouldn’t come to the venue with him; rather, you’ll have more time at his place to rest up and dress up, and he’ll send a car to pick you up. You’ll get there in time to see him briefly before the concert and then be seated ahead of the crowds. “I feel like fucking royalty just thinking about it!” you admit. Matching your grin, he gives you a peck on the cheek.

“Rock star royalty, babe!” he says, in a fake American accent. Then, in his normal voice, “Damn sight better than those fuckers the Windsors.”

The day of the concert, he leaves pretty early for the sound check and all the other rituals that precede a performance. He’s not the only name on the program, either, although he’s the headliner and therefore the last act; it’s over two hours of Irish folk, rock, trad, and indie performers, including one that gives you some feelings: Andrew’s one-time girlfriend, Loah.

He never talks about his exes, ever. No names, no details, neither praise nor complaint. But the one person he’s always been known to have dated--the only person other than Alex to have co-written a song with him, to this day--is Sallay-Matu Garnett, professionally known as Loah. Like Andrew, she sings, plays guitar, and writes her own material, and she’s very good, if not as grandly successful as he is. She also seems like the most different person from yourself that you can conceive: an Irishwoman whose parents were from Sierra Leone, she is dark-skinned, supremely elegant even in casual looks, exquisitely femme, along with being a gifted musician. You’ve watched video of her, of course (and quietly panicked, after you started dating Andrew), but you’ve never seen her live, and you will tonight.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, as carefully put together as you can be, you just hope that Andrew doesn’t decide to introduce you, because you will probably look like a cross between a hobbit and a mushroom if you have to stand next to Loah.

Andrew texts you to say the car is on its way, and then the driver texts you when it arrives. You get into the back seat, and the car doesn’t pull off until you are buckled up and settled in. On the drive you game on your phone to keep from chewing your nails or tapping your foot or anything else that would betray your nerves, but your hands are shaking as you match and smash things on the tiny screen.

The car is met at the stage entrance by a cheerful stocky red-haired woman in a suit who introduces herself as “Maureen, I’m one of Caroline’s people.” Something about her takes the edge off your nerves; she’s efficient and friendly, and you know you can rely on anyone who works for Andrew’s manager Caroline Downey. 

She inquires whether you need a drink, a snack, perhaps a stop in the restroom. You pick option number three and then accept a bottle of water. Maureen then takes you through the backstage area where the musicians wait before going on, en route to Andrew’s dressing room, and then you see him--you can’t miss him, ever, always the tallest figure in a group--talking to Loah.

He’s dressed in brown trousers and a soft forest green sweater, handsome brown suede boots. His hair looks magnificent; a couple of years ago he finally added a stylist to his crew. Loah looks pretty magnificent, too, wearing a dark gold tunic over a narrow skirt with a striking statement necklace of copper and stones. Her hair is done in long beaded braids and woven into a sort of asymmetrical crown atop her head.

Andrew is speaking and gesturing, his black travel mug in one hand with the inevitable tea bag fluttering as he moves. Loah is listening and nodding, her wide golden earrings swaying along. Then his head turns, and his face lights up. Once again it strikes you, sharp as a blow, how utterly gorgeous he is. You don’t even realize that he’s lighting up because he’s seen you until he turns back to Loah, leans in with a hand on her arm to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, which she returns, and then walks away from her, toward you and Maureen.

In a couple minutes the two of you are alone in his dressing room. He smiles down at you and you goggle up at him as if you were still just a fan.

“I could use a hug?” He holds out his arms.

“Oh, of course--” and he wraps you close, warmly, but not too tightly--probably, you realize, trying not to distress your outfit.

Letting you go, he kisses you lightly and sits down, in front of the brightly lit makeup mirror. You let yourself drop back against the closed door. You don’t want to step in front of that big mirror and see yourself side by side with him. The hobbit and the faery prince.

But Andrew seems not to notice your bashfulness. He’s already almost at concert pitch, vibrating with the energy he only gets when he performs. “I got you the best seat in the house,” he says, proud and happy. “And the line-up is extraordinary, Sal, I mean, Loah has two new tunes I haven’t heard before--”

Sal. Sallay. Loah. Andrew rambles on, giving you a brief introduction to what sounds like the whole slate for the night, but you stay right there, hung on her name, on the memory of the elegant woman you saw him talking to when you arrived. The woman he turned away from so he could spend time with you.

And suddenly it occurs to you that all three of you are in your early thirties, and she’s not his only ex, and they were together for a while in college, over ten years ago now. He gave her a polite kiss on the cheek and you’ve seen him be far more demonstrative with his manager, with people who’ve toured with him like Kristen Rogers and Ruth Medjber, even with you, and in front of other people. And suddenly you’re ready to sit in the best seat, where the view and the acoustics are perfect, and for a couple of hours to be just a fan again, listening to some of the best musicians in Ireland, including your favorite, Hozier.


	10. January 2nd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sunrise swim.

You knew that if you came to Ireland, if you stayed with Andrew, sooner or later he was going to get you down to the beach again, even in winter. It’s hard to believe that after last night’s performance, which was stunning, as usual, he’ll want to get up before sunrise and go dip himself in the cold beauty of the Irish Sea, but that’s exactly what he does.

Comfortably bundled up with a new hat and scarf you bought the other day, you watch him strip down to loose black trunks, piling everything neatly on a blanket. Then he walks toward the water, stopping just shy of where the sand is wet from the waves. A sudden breeze lifts his hair; he rolls his shoulders, making his shoulderblades stand out like incipient wings. He faces the sea and the rising sun for a moment, and you wish you had a proper camera to capture this moment: the steady waves, the shifting colors on the horizon, the man you love. Then he strides into the waves, letting out a whoop of simultaneous shock and delight, and dives forward, into his element. 

He stays in the water longer than you thought he would, swimming parallel to the beach. You start pacing him, walking up and down the strand. As the light grows stronger, you begin to notice things that have washed up on the shore: all sorts of shells, clumps of seaweed (isn’t there a song about seaweed, an Irish song?), bits of broken glass washed opaque by years of drifting. The breakers roll in and in, bringing more of this detritus; you bend down to pick up a spiral shell with brown spots on a green ground and yelp in surprise as the cold water surges over your fingers.

You hear splashing and look up to see Andrew coming out of the water. His hair is completely sodden and water streams off it down his arms and chest. He throws it back out of his eyes, not stopping his slow sure stride, and for a moment, you feel a prickling at the back of your neck, as if he really is an eldritch being coming out of the sea to the human world--a merman, a selkie, even Manannan the sea god himself.

Then he runs up the sand to the blanket where your stuff is and seizes the towel he brought, and he’s just Andrew again, blowing out his lips as he swathes himself in the enormous bath sheet. You hurry back to him, the spiral shell in one cold wet hand, as he wrings out his hair. The tip of his nose and the peaks of his cheekbones are bright red.

“Ready for a trip to the Hedgehog?” He’s smiling, shivering, happy. So are you.


	11. January 3rd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little time apart is a good thing for a couple.

Once you get home from the Happy Hedgehog, Andrew spends much of the day after his concert napping and eating. You lounge around with him, reading, writing in your journal, and eating your fair share. 

By the next day, however, he’s full of energy again, off tinkering with a new song while you’re still lingering over breakfast. You eventually shower and dress, have another muffin and some cranberry juice (call it second breakfast), and then find him still working in the music room.

You knock first but then go right in. He looks up from the laptop where he does the first stage of recording, sees you, and looks distracted, then guilty. At once he beckons you over, but you’re smiling.

“I’m sorry, love, got wrapped up in this and lost track of time--”

“No, no, it’s okay.” You step between his knees, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and dropping a quick kiss on the top of his head. “Mm, that new shampoo you bought smells great. No, listen, we’ve been pretty much joined at the hip for a few days, you know, except for the concert--why don’t we take a little break? You’ve got some inspiration; I’m in low gear, but I’d like to go out for a walk on my own. I might call for a car and go into Dublin or something. Then if we feel like it, maybe we could go out for dinner.”

All the tension goes out of the muscles beneath your arms, and he gives you his sweetest smile. “That’d be great. Or if we don’t go out, order something good, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Neither of you is much of a cook, although to tell the truth, he’s probably more capable in the kitchen than you are. Cooking takes planning, and that’s where you both fall short.

“I need a little space,” you go on, “and I think you do, too.”

He nods. “Yeah. So enjoy your walk. Just let me know if you go off by car, all right?”

“Oh sure.” 

You exchange a quick smooch and leave Andrew to his songwriting. Then, since it’s not raining (for a change), you pull on your coat, your new scarf and hat, and go outside for a walk. 

Andrew’s house is basically in the woods, in what would be an isolated rural area in the States. It’s perfect both for indulging his hermit tendencies or making a lot of noise with his music without disturbing other people, yet it’s also not really very isolated, as you’ve learned staying with him. This isn’t the first time you’ve walked in the woods there, but it’s the first time you’ve gone alone. It’s clear and bright, for the moment, but cold, and damp; it’s always damp in Ireland, you think, that’s why Andrew wears so many layers. It’s not that the temperatures are that much colder than home during the winter; it’s the dampness, the wind that from every direction brings moisture from the sea. 

Andrew knows these woods and will point things out--a badger’s lair, a fox’s tracks, the names of trees and birds. To you it’s just forest, just trees, just songbirds, crows, and an occasional raven, larger than the crows, with a heavy ruff at its throat and a deep harsh voice. Black earth, bare roots, moss, lichens, rows of shelf-like fungus on trees, a mixture of evergreens and deciduous trees with dry bronzed leaves still clinging here and there. A smell of sea and earth and mould different from anything at home. 

You realize that you keep comparing Ireland to your part of the U.S., you keep thinking about how different things are here, and it’s not just because Ireland *is* very different from the U.S. and it’s the home of your boyfriend and that makes it significant--you realize that you’re actually asking yourself, Could I live here? Do I want to live here? Is my relationship with Andy serious enough that moving here is a possibility?

You stop, suddenly noticing what’s around you again. Directly ahead of you, the path curves around a massive stump, low and broad, festooned with yellow growths, maybe a kind of fungus, maybe lichen, you’re not an expert. Beyond the stump, between two pine trees close together, stands a deer.

The deer seems to notice you just as you notice it--her? It has no antlers. Its wide brown eyes, soft-looking black nose are worthy of Bambi, but this is a real animal, a living creature. Those startled eyes are on a level with yours. You stand perfectly still, hardly breathing. One long ear rotates purposefully; the other flicks in a seemingly casual way. You have a strange urge to run, as though you were facing a predator and not a lone herbivore. Then, before you are forced to break the tension, the deer wheels around and flits away with its legendary speed, leaving only the impression of black hooves and the flashing white tail. 

You stand there for a couple of minutes, just breathing in and out. Then you recall that you’re on unfamiliar territory and you’re not sure how long you’ve been gone from the house. You have a couple seconds of terror, keep on breathing, and then remember what Andrew told you the first time you came into these woods together: “Basically the most obvious path goes round in a circle and comes back to where you can see the path. Probably made it meself.” 

With that in mind you step forward, go around the stump, and trust the path.


	12. January 4th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be the angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to the anon on Tumblr whose praise in my inbox motivated me to take a stab at finishing this chapter today. In the face of whatever shit the world can throw at us, we have to keep creating, no matter how small our efforts.

Today is your last full day together: you fly home tomorrow, in the late afternoon. You wake up face to face with Andrew, and your first thought isn’t, as so often, “Oh, how beautiful he is,” but, “This is the next to last time I get to wake up in bed with him. For now.” Not the happiest way to start your day.

Andrew is dreaming; he has the tell-tale shifting of his eyes behind almost-closed lids, and his lips draw back from his teeth in something like a sneer. Watching him, hearing his rapid breathing, you think he’ll wake up any minute, but he doesn’t: Instead, he rolls over, face down into the pillows, and goes lax, deeply asleep again.

Struck with resentment, you practically leap out of bed, very nearly stomp your way to the shower. You’re not interrupted by a long-haired lover who missed you in the bed and wants to join you. When you go back to the bedroom to dress, Andrew’s flat on his back and snoring loudly. You stomp off to the kitchen to make coffee instead of tea. 

Somewhere into your second cup, you remember that you really don’t like coffee that much, especially without steamed milk and flavors. It lies bitter on your stomach and you’re thinking about food when Andrew wanders in, wearing old jeans with holes and yesterday’s flannel shirt. His hair is in a ponytail and he’s squinting through his glasses; he’s obviously not dressed for the day or even very awake. 

“You’re all dressed,” he says, sounding baffled.

“Well, good morning to you, too.” You sip your coffee and grimace. Andrew sniffs.

“Did you make coffee, then, not tea?”

“Yeah. Not sure if there’s any left.” You get up and empty what’s left in your cup into the sink, rinsing and then hand-scrubbing the cup to keep your back to Andrew.

He comes up behind you and lays a hand, lightly, on your shoulder. You flinch, slightly, and he squeezes once and lets go.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

The beginning of a stupid conversation, a stupid argument, that a million couples have had. Your eyes flood with tears that you can’t wipe because your hands are still wet. You and Andrew aren’t special; you’re just like every other stupid couple, you’re going to have a stupid fight over a mood.

You attempt to blot your eyes with your sleeve, but all you do is get warm dishwater on your face. Ridiculously, this makes you cry harder. You fumble the mug into the drainer and grope, sobbing, toward the paper towels. A gentle hand puts some tissues in your hand instead, then takes your wrist and leads you toward the table. 

You sit there and cry for a couple of minutes. Andrew makes himself a cuppa tea and then sits down with you. He has an ability that few straight, cis men possess: the ability to stay composed in the face of emotional displays. He doesn’t get angry at you for having a meltdown, or at least, if he’s angry, he’s not shouting, he’s not telling you you’re somehow in the wrong for feeling what you’re feeling. He drinks his tea and waits.

Eventually you calm down, blow your nose one last time, and wash your face with cool water. Andrew stares into his mug, not watching you, but when you sit down again, he reaches out slowly to curl his fingers around your arm and rub, as though feeling the texture of your sweater. 

“I go home tomorrow,” you say, to no one in particular. You sniff. “I don’t want to go home.”

“I don’t want you to go, either.” Having said that, almost under his breath, he gets up, and for a moment you’re afraid he’s walking away, from that statement, from you, but no; he’s only going to the sink to refill the kettle.

“Make a cup for me?”

“Of course.”

He turns back to you, leaning on the sink, as the kettle heats. “I don’t want to go back to long distance with you, no. But I have a tour starting in two months, right? And you have your job, and your family. Nothing can change right away.”

The kettle hisses and pops. He fills his own mug and a fresh one for you and brings them to the table, sits down before saying anything more.

“Nothing can change right away,” Andrew says again, and this time he leans on the last two words. “But it can change, things can be changed, if we want to.”

He gives you a shy look from under his lashes, as if he’s not sure what your reaction will be. You stir sugar into your tea, almost afraid to meet his eyes.

“Would you… want things to change?” You gulp at your tea.

“Would you?”

You stare at one another, hardly blinking, playing some kind of chicken. Then Andrew pulls a face, and you both start laughing. The tension is broken, and your evil mood has gone with it.

“What do you say, let me take a quick shower, then let’s grab breakfast somewhere and go up to Glendalough for a while? Walk around, get a little peace of soul, maybe.”

“That sounds like a great idea.”

He leans over and kisses you, lingeringly, then drops off his mug in the sink and heads for the bathroom. Mug in hand, you wander to the back door of the house, open it, and look out, into the sky with more kinds of clouds than you’ve ever seen anywhere else, the woods, the tracks of a fox surprisingly close to the door. It looks to be a good day.


	13. January 5th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home is where the heart is.

On your last day in Ireland, you get the morning cuddle and sex you had wanted the day before. You are slow, affectionate, playful together, talking between kisses; you make one demand, that Andy get naked so you can have the full effect of skin on skin. He gladly accedes, and you rub yourself shamelessly against his fuzzy chest and belly, slip your leg between his, purr with pleasure like a cat. He laughs, wraps his long arms around you, and nibbles at all his favorite spots (and yours) on your jaw, neck, and throat. 

At the end you straddle him and ride, savoring the sensation of looking down at him, him looking up at you, his big hands on your skin, his hair a gorgeous mess. Then there’s a little post-coital dozing before Andrew heads for the shower; you hear him singing in there, nothing you recognize, and realize his thoughts are shifting to the upcoming tour. And that’s okay.

After breakfast, you take your shower and start packing while Andrew faffs around in the studio. Your flight isn’t until early evening; the two of you will go out for a late lunch or early dinner on the way to the airport. You’re just starting to feel a bit melancholy when he pops in and says, “Want to go for a walk?”

Of course you do. Quickly you bundle up and follow Andrew outside, where you discover that it snowed overnight. It’s not more than an inch or two, but it decorates everything perfectly, the ground, the bare branches, the dark needles of the evergreen, like a sprinkling of magic. It is picture-book, fairy-tale perfect.

Arm in arm you wander into the woods, talking idly. Andrew tells you his current itinerary for the tour; you’ll get a couple of days with him in May, a small scheduled break for the whole band and crew. “You should come visit the animal shelter with us, cuddle a puppy,” he says. He says it lightly, but that would be kind of a big deal, to appear with him and the band like that.

You’re beginning to turn back to the house when snow starts falling again. At your urging, the two of you sit on a large fallen tree to watch the snow. It flecks Andrew’s beard for an instant before melting, lingers a bit longer on your scarf, slowly but surely fills up your footprints. It’s not a heavy fall, but it’s so beautiful. You feel deeply moved; then Andrew says, thoughtfully, “Looks like fucking Narnia, doesn’t it?”

Howling with laughter, you nearly fall off your seat. He gives you a hand up, grinning. “Better get out of the wardrobe, eh?”

“Right, right,” you’re still giggling, “where’s that lamp-post?”

Back at the house you finish packing, not without a little crying. But it’s not bad crying, and you don’t pull Andrew away from the work-related phone calls he’s making. Sooner than you expect, everything is in its place and it’s time to go.

You wander through the house, ostensibly making one final check that you haven’t left anything, but really saying good-bye to each room, the studio with its racks of guitars and keyboard and laptop, the bedroom where the smell of you both is still on the sheets, the living room with its piano and bay window and shelves of books, and the kitchen, the electric kettle, the back door, the woods. Andrew is piling your stuff into the car and you walk around the house, through the remnants of the snow, past the flower beds his mother planted, to join him.

The drive into Dublin takes around 45 minutes. Neither of you says very much. You look out the window and say good-bye to all the things that have become familiar during your stay, trees and bushes, fences and fields, a boulder at the turn-off. You go to a pub Andrew likes that has typical Irish food and good booze, the stuff they don’t export. It’s not too early to have a stout with your meal, a good lamb stew that’s so tender you barely have to chew, and a bread pudding swimming in caramel sauce that you split with Andrew.

You both relax over food and drink, in the warmth and coziness of the pub, and conversation flows again. For a little while you forget that this is your last meal together for something like six months, that you won’t be driving back to the house outside Bray. But then the bill is paid and you’re in the car again, with just another twenty minutes ahead of you before you get to the airport.

Still parked, Andrew reaches into his coat pocket and hands you something. “Happy Twelfth Night, or something. Sorry it isn’t wrapped.”

You stare, open-mouthed, at the small square in your hands. It’s a CD of his new album--his as yet unreleased album. “I couldn’t get you a vinyl.” He sounds apologetic. “Besides, this will travel better.” 

You take a deep breath. “Oh my god, you idiot!” You do your best to smother him with hugs and kisses across the armrest and parking break, not very effectively. He laughs and hugs you back. 

You can see the airport ahead when Andrew says, “So, ehm, I’ll let you know the exact dates I can meet up with you during the tour.”

“Right.”

“There’s a break in late August, but I won’t be good for anything then--limp as a dishrag.” He grins at you. “Then we’ll be finishing up close to Christmas. You could come back for a visit then.”

“That sounds good.” Almost a year away. He’s sitting a few inches away, yet you ache with emptiness already. At least you’ll see him for a few days in May or June.

“And I thought maybe, by then, you’d know if you wanted to stay. Ehm, permanently. And we could talk about, ehm.” You glance over to see him swallow hard. “If you want to make things permanent. With me. You know.” 

You stare at him for a long silent moment. He glances between you and the road and licks his lips. “You idiot,” you say again, finally, “how dare you ask me that when you’re driving and I can’t hug and kiss you?”

He laughs breathlessly and makes a right turn. 

“I mean, let’s be sure we’re on the same page, right? You *are* asking me to marry you?”

He glances back at you for only a second; you’re in the airport now. “Ehm, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yes. Move here, move in with me, marry me. That’s what I’m proposing.”

You wipe the tears off your face with your sleeves. “Okay. Yes. Yeah. Of course I will, you idiot.”

“If you’re going to live here, you’ll have to learn to pronounce that properly. ‘Ya eedjit’, that’s how it’s done.”

“Eedjit,” you echo before bursting into tears.

It’s a long flight back to the States, but you’ve got some new books to read, Aer Lingus serves the good booze, and Andrew’s CD is tucked into your jacket. The only problem is that it feels like home is behind you, not ahead. But it won’t be too long before you can come back home for good. Permanently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End. Twelve days, thirteen chapters, thank you for reading, folks!


End file.
